


lately i've been losing sleep

by rain_of_stars



Series: for want of a nail [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, Romance, awkward first date, mentions of past dubcon, mentions of past gaslighting/mental abuse, minor gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_of_stars/pseuds/rain_of_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles may not have entirely thought through the consequences of dating an undead psychopathic werewolf. Especially with the alpha pack closing in. On top of that, someone is starting to sacrifice virgins…<br/>In the aftermath of just like the ocean under the moon, things get complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEEEYYY GUESS WHO SHOULD HAVE HAD THIS UP LIKE SIX MONTHS AGO  
> Seriously sorry about the wait, guys. Life kept getting in the way. But I’m done my Master’s degree now and Teen Wolf is starting back up, so it’s time I got this fic up! As before, most chapters T, rating will go up once relevant chapters are posted. Enjoy!

“I don’t know,” Sheriff Stilinski said, staring at the bags in his trunk. “It still seems like a long time.”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair and resisted the urge to check his watch for the fifth time in an hour. “Dad, seriously, it’s just a week. Not even a week! Five days! You’ve been looking forward to this chess tournament for months, and you deserve a vacation after everything that’s happened.”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff sighed, still not sounding convinced. He glanced at Stiles. “Sure you don’t want to come with?”

“I’m already _on_ vacation,” Stiles pointed out. “And I’m enjoying the heck out of it, which I won’t be if I’m sitting around watching two guys move game pieces and listening to you reminisce about high school with Rob Holden.”

"He wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”

“He’s the one who used a page of my Spiderman comics to start up the barbeque and made grilled spider jokes for a week.”

His father paused. “I forgot about that.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and tried a different tack. “Look, I’m probably going to spending half my time at Scott’s playing Mario Kart anyways. Mrs. McCall will make sure I don’t get into too much trouble.”

“ _Any_ trouble,” the Sheriff clarified, pointing at Stiles warningly. “If I get a call saying you’ve stolen another police car or been wandering around looking for dead bodies-”

“You’ll ground me for life before you even get home,” Stiles finished.

The Sheriff’s stance softened. He sighed. “I just want you to be safe.”

“I know,” Stiles replied, his throat tightening. It wasn’t his dad’s fault that he kept getting into trouble, and it hurt to see him try to deal with it, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to explain why. Not yet. Not when his dad might be in even more danger for knowing the truth.

His dad cleared his throat. “Guess I’d better get going, then,” he said, closing the trunk. He stepped up beside Stiles and gave him a brief, tight hug. “Love you, son.”

“Love you too, Dad,” Stiles said, returning the hug.

He backed up onto the porch and waved until the car was out of sight. He stood there for a long moment. Then Stiles dashed frantically up to his room and started digging through his closet.

“Shirt, shirt, where the hell is that shirt, when did I even _get_ this stuff,” he muttered, tossing rejected articles of clothing onto the floor. His fingers encountered a length of silk instead and he stared at it in a momentary panic. Did he have to wear a tie? Would Peter have told him if he needed to wear a tie?

 _No tie_ , he decided as he abandoned the search for the shirt and grabbed a pair of dark jeans. He changed his mind a few seconds later, dug it out and hung it around his neck. He stared at it for a moment and changed his mind again, tossing it on the bed, where it seemed to stare at him accusingly. “This would be so much easier if Peter wasn’t such a _secretive fuck_ ,” he complained to the tie.

They had been unofficially ‘dating’ for the past three weeks, ever since the botched spell had been taken off and they discovered not all of Peter’s feelings had been induced by magic. The unofficial part stemmed mostly from Stiles’ paranoia and the fact that almost everyone in the police force knew him on sight. “Do you really think anyone on the force would hesitate to tell my dad that I’ve been sneaking around town with an older guy?” he’d asked Peter when they started – whatever this was. “Like, not just talking to but eating with? And making out with, and holding hands, and generally doing all that sappy romantic stuff that people are supposed to do on dates?” He’d been kind of looking forward to all that sappy romantic stuff, but he tried to suppress that thought.

“I could be your counselor,” Peter said reflectively. “Or some kind of teacher, as long as we kept the touching to a minimum.”

“ _God_ no,” Stiles said, trying to shove away the image of himself on a date with Ms. Morrell or Mr. Harris and failing. “Are you kidding, I could never pretend you were a teacher.” He paused. “Unless maybe you told me to. And it was in my bedroom. And maybe I hadn’t done my homework…”

The conversation had wandered off into considerably more enjoyable and physical grounds about then, but by the end of that night they had agreed to keep their relationship out of the public eye for the moment. This, unfortunately, meant that contact was kept brief and clandestine – mostly walks in the forest or movies where they arrived separately and spent the hours huddled close in the darkness. Stiles sometimes visited Peter’s apartment but did so rarely because Scott had to cover for him when he did and was plainly unhappy about lying. Stiles had the feeling that Scott was confused by their whole relationship and still skeptical about Peter’s intentions, but he hadn’t figured out the best way to talk to him about it.

That hadn’t kept Scott from talking to Peter, though. Peter chuckled when Stiles asked about Scott’s visit. “I’ll have to ask him whether he and Derek compared notes,” he said. “They both gave me the same ‘if you hurt him I’ll kill you’ speech. Derek’s was more graphic, though,” he added with a touch of pride.

With the restrictions surrounding their time together, Stiles had jumped at the chance for them to have a real date. Peter had reserved a table for them at a restaurant an hour or so outside of Beacon Hills – far enough that Stiles could be reasonably certain they wouldn’t be recognized. Peter insisted on keeping the restaurant a secret, saying that it would be a nice surprise.

“Which would be great and romantic and all, except it _doesn’t help me decide what to wear_ ,” he told the tie.

It lay there mutely and somewhat reproachfully. Stiles sighed. “And now I’m complaining to pieces of clothing. Great. This speaks _so_ well for my chances of surviving junior year with my sanity intact.”

He ran a hand through his fast-growing hair and looked at the mirror in his closet. The dinner wasn’t the only thing on his mind. He was acutely aware that the Sheriff being away for five days left him the run of the house and more privacy than they’d gotten in weeks. They had never gone much further than necking at Peter’s apartment – Peter seemed perfectly willing to go further, but was waiting for some kind of sign from Stiles, and he’d been wracked with indecision. But maybe, after their dinner tonight…

_Peter hovered over him, body trembling as he resisted the pull of the curse, hips trying to rock forward as Stiles tried to get away and couldn’t…_

Stiles shook his head hard. Grabbing a black shirt in the corner, he started another endless round of trying on clothing.

\----

Peter rang the doorbell of the Stilinski house at exactly six o’clock. It wasn’t all that difficult to be punctual, considering that he had been lurking around the house for the past hour. He’d watched the Sheriff drive off, waiting to be certain that the man wouldn’t forget something and come back at an inopportune moment. The rest of the time was mostly spent lying hidden in the grass under Stiles’ window, listening to the pacing and nervous heartbeat in the room above. Somehow it calmed him to think that Stiles was putting so much effort (and occasionally a frustrated scream) into getting ready for their date. With any luck, tonight would go off without a hitch.

Not that Peter Hale was nervous. At all. Definitely not.

Now he trained his senses onto what was happening on the other side of the door. As the chime died away, there was a brief curse and a slam, followed almost immediately by a yelp of pain. Fast thumping coming down the hall and then the stairs. A swish where there should have been a thump at the bottom and a louder, wall-shaking thump, along with the faint tinkle of something breaking. A stifled groan. A grunt of effort. Footsteps rapidly approaching the door and stopping just short of it. Rapid muttering dying away into a long, deep breath as the heartbeat slowed from hummingbird-fast to just-gone-for-a-run. A pause.

Stiles opened the door with exaggerated casualness and smiled. “Hey.”

\----

Leaning on the door jamb in what he thought was a sexy pose and trying to ignore the throbbing from where he’d slammed his fingers in a drawer and slipped on the stairs, Stiles took the opportunity to remind himself that _here_ was the reason he was putting himself through this torture. Though he normally wore shirts with necklines so low they should be illegal, Peter’s shirt was tastefully buttoned up to his collarbone tonight, while still tight enough to show off his werewolf-perfect chest. His jeans were dark and expensive and probably tailored, given how well they were contoured to his body. But it was his eyes that held Stiles as they darkened with appreciation at the sight of him. After alternately fighting, mouthing off to, and running away from Peter for months, he’d thought Peter was only capable of sarcastic charm or furious rage. It had taken a botched spell to show him that the older man was still capable of tenderness and love. Stiles thought the revelation had come as a surprise to Peter as well.

Peter also seemed to be silently laughing at something, but that was hardly unusual.

“So,” Stiles said to break the silence. “You’re – here. And dressed. Not that you’d show up to my house undressed. Actually, scratch that, you’d definitely show up undressed at some point if my dad wouldn’t shoot you, so it would have to be through somewhere besides the front door and that’s _definitely not the point_ of why we’re here and. Um.” The wreckage of Stiles’ train of thought ground to a halt, smoking a bit. He gestured to the street. “Car?”

Peter was _definitely_ laughing at something, just barely not out loud, and Stiles thanked whoever was watching over him for that small mercy as his blush crept up his neck towards his ears. If his boyfriend had started laughing in his face at Stiles’ attempt to be coherent, he might actually have had to dig a hole and hide in it for the rest of his natural life. Still, he couldn’t say he minded what it did for Peter’s expression. The laugh lines crinkling around his eyes were nearly worth the embarrassment all by themselves.

Stiles stood by awkwardly as Peter calmed down and cleared his throat. “I can’t say I’m opposed to showing up undressed someday,” he said. “But tonight, I’m pretty sure you’d like to have dinner first.”

“That’s – yeah. Good idea. Let’s go,” Stiles gabbled, shoving his feet into his shoes. He tried to head out, but Peter’s hand on his chest stopped him. Stiles swallowed.

“But first…” Peter said in a low voice. He reached up and took hold of the tie that Stiles had left loose around his neck, still unable to decide. Peter undid the sloppy knot and retied it smoothly, fingers casually brushing across Stiles’ neck. His pulse quickened.

Peter pulled gently on the finished knot to bring Stiles in for a brief kiss, no more than a brush of the lips. Then he smiled and stepped off the porch. “I parked down the street,” he said. He raised one eyebrow suggestively. “Unless you’d rather - eat in.”

Stiles’ laughter was a little too high-pitched as he tried to hide the mixture of excitement and anxiety that rushed through him. “Your idea of a ‘romantic surprise’ had me tearing my hair out for an hour, don’t think for a _second_ you’re getting out of this,” he promised as he followed Peter. The door clicked shut behind him.

\----

The restaurant turned out to be called Angelo’s, an Italian place that served generous portions and specialized in seafood. It was fairly nice, though not, Stiles thought, nice enough to justify a tie. He’d scanned the place for anyone he knew as soon as they entered and was relieved to find that he didn’t recognize any faces. The lifting of that burden meant he could give his natural inquisitiveness full rein, and they chatted back and forth over their meals.

“So I know you’re independently wealthy or something with the insurance money, but you’ve got to do _some_ thing to keep from spiraling into a black hole of boredom,” Stiles said, gesturing with his glass and just barely keeping his drink from slopping out. “So what do you do all day? Got any career plans?”

“Possibly,” Peter allowed.

“Like what?”

“Porn star,” Peter said without missing a beat.

Stiles had just taken a sip of water. Half the water ended up on the table in front of him as he choked, his mind unhelpfully pasting Peter’s face into all his favorite porn scenes. He glanced up to see Peter smirking at him. _He’s definitely back to normal_ , Stiles thought.

“Sorry,” Peter said, though the amusement in his voice said he wasn’t entirely. “Couldn’t resist.” He passed Stiles his own napkin and sat back. “I do a lot of things to pass the time. Research, mostly. I enjoy learning lore about werewolves and others – there’s a reason I digitized and kept the bestiary. Catching up on what I missed while I was in a coma. Baking.” His lips curled in a smile. “I teach Latin dance on Tuesdays.”

Stiles’ eyebrows rose. “You teach Latin dance,” he said.

Peter nodded. “Salsa, mostly. I also know tango and bachata, but salsa is more popular. Easier to learn.”

Stiles kept waiting to see if he was kidding, but Peter kept a straight face. “Wow. That’s – actually pretty cool,” Stiles said finally. “I know how to slow dance and move kind of in time with the music and that’s about it. Actually, I’m pretty sure I hit Scott in the face once by accident.” He caught Peter’s eye and protested, “It was a _catchy song_.”

Peter’s smile grew. “I’m sure I have a few spots open in my classes,” he said. “Teaching you would be a nice change.”

“Sounds good,” Stiles said, ears growing warm at the thought of Peter showing his body how to move in what was sure to be a hands-on lesson. He cleared his throat. “So that’s your dream job? Dance instructor?”

“No,” Peter admitted. “I’d considered becoming a doctor, but since my degree is… incomplete-”

His smile disappeared and he paused for a moment, staring at something long past. Stiles’ mouth tasted of ash and tragedy and he wished he could take his question back.

Peter gave a small shake of his head and continued. “I’ve been pursuing my other dream of becoming a writer.” His eyes held a mischievous glint. “Remarkable, the number of people these days who want to read about werewolves.”

Stiles groaned and dropped his head on the table. “Please tell me you didn’t write one of those Twilight rip-offs,” he said.

Peter snorted. “You really think that little of me?” As Stiles glanced up, not sure if he’d actually offended the man, Peter waved it off. “Not even if I got a series deal. My pack is composed of hormonal teenagers, I don’t need to spend any more time on love triangles. Though, if the demand is there…” he mused.

“Oh my _god_ , I swear I will break up with you here and now if you finish that sentence,” Stiles said.

Peter laughed at Stiles’ expression. “Then it’s good for me that the point is academic.” He sipped at his drink as Stiles let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I haven’t gotten anything published so far, and they’re mostly short stories from – shall we say, an insider’s point of view. What it actually _means_ to be a werewolf. I haven’t finished anything close to a novel in the time I’ve been aboveground.”

“I guess that stuff would make a pretty good story,” Stiles allowed. “But tell me if you do get anything published. I don’t want to open a magazine and find Scott or Derek looking back at me.”

"I make no promises,” Peter teased. He ate a few more bites of his entrée as Stiles waved a fork threateningly and went back to his own meal. After a while, he said, “And you?”

“Hm?”

“You’ll be taking the SATs this year. Any idea of where you want to end up? What you might like to do after?”

Stiles swallowed the last of his linguini and thought. “Well, I always kind of figured I’d… you know, head up to Berkeley, major in Law Enforcement. Get my degree.” He fiddled with his napkin, not looking at Peter. “Come back and work in the Sheriff’s office.”

When he looked up again, Peter had a slight frown on his face. “What?” Stiles asked self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he said, though it obviously wasn’t. Stiles waited expectantly. Peter caught his look and sighed. “I don’t mean to object. By all means, chase your dreams. But you do recognize the irony in majoring in Law Enforcement when that’s exactly the opposite of what you’ve been doing over the past few months, right?”

Stiles scoffed to cover the hurt those words caused him. “That’s not – half those things wouldn’t even have _happened_ if it wasn’t for werewolves. And the other half would have been solved if I’d had access to the right materials.”

“And how would you have explained why you needed them?” Peter countered. “Murders might give you leave to look for the dead bodies, but how are you going to convince people that what you’re searching for is a werewolf serial killer?”

“You’re one to talk, you were _responsible_ for at least five of the killings that got us in trouble-”

“I’m hardly responsible for you stealing confidential information or drugging and kidnapping a classmate to hold him in a police van. Which you also stole.”

Stiles was one decibel away from shouting, voice tight and angry. “But there were extenuating circumstances! There were-”

“-Werewolves, yes, and then there was the kanima, and now there’s the alpha pack, and probably another enemy in a few months, and another, and another. Stiles-” Peter’s eyes bore into Stiles, their icy blue penetrating his mixed fury and panic. “Did you think all those ‘extenuating circumstances’ were ever going to just – go away?”

Stiles stared at Peter as the question lanced through him. He felt sick. He hadn’t thought about it, actually. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d assumed that he and Scott were eventually going to get their collective shit sorted out and things would go back to – well, not _normal_ , not when Scott was bitten and they’d had the lid pried off of their world, but safety. Equilibrium. A time for wounds to heal and their only supernatural concern to be the full moon. Just stop the Alpha and it’s over. Just stop the kanima and it’s over. Just stop the alpha pack… just…

They wouldn’t stop coming. They would never stop coming, and Stiles didn’t know why he hadn’t seen that. It wasn’t his job, he hadn’t chosen this life, but he was one of the very few who knew what was really going on and how to save people from what lived in the dark and that made him _responsible_ and _they would never stop coming_ -

Stiles stood up so fast his chair banged into the table behind him. “’Scuse me,” he muttered and dashed away, ignoring Peter calling after him.

He made it to the bathroom just in time to throw up.

\----

The silence in the car was so thick you could have stuffed mattresses with it. Stiles stared out the rainy window at the masses of dark forest, letting the silence deaden his ears. Peter had gotten to the bathroom a few seconds after he did, stroking his back and murmuring soothing words as he brought Stiles down from what could have become a panic attack. He’d stayed by Stiles’ side as the boy retched and easily agreed to end their date early and leave. He’d been the perfect gentlemen, and Stiles hated it.

He _wanted_ to be angry at Peter. He _wanted_ to be sure that the older wolf was manipulating his emotions, putting up a façade to hide some scheme. As much as he cared for Peter, a part of him couldn’t let go of the terror he’d felt in those winter months, and Stiles wanted to be certain of which Peter he was dealing with. Which was ridiculous – they were the same – but Stiles was having trouble reconciling the sharp-tongued werewolf with the supportive boyfriend, and he wished he could silence his doubts once and for all.

It didn’t help that Peter wasn’t even the reason for his distress. He’d just pointed out a flaw Stiles should have seen a long time ago. Stiles gritted his teeth as a wave of hate and self-pity washed through him. It wasn’t _fair_ , and yeah, okay, life didn’t have to be fair, but why the _fuck_ did it have to be him? Or Scott, or Derek, or anybody? What the hell was up with Beacon Hills that attracted tragedy and serial killers like a – well, like a beacon.

Huh. _That_ was an interesting idea…

Peter cleared his throat. “It’s not forever, you know.”

Stiles blinked and looked over. “What’s not?”

Peter kept his eyes on the road and away from Stiles. “I may have… over-exaggerated the supernatural threats to you. This level of activity is… unusual.” He shifted in his seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “And it’s partly my fault.”

“You think?” Stiles said, sarcasm dripping off his words.

Peter opened his mouth, irritated, then shut it again and took a deep breath. Stiles wondered if he was actually counting to ten. “I acted in revenge,” he continued. “I still think I needed to, but so much death and so much changing attracts… outside attention. People who enjoy chaos. But threats like that can be managed. There’s no reason you should have to give up your dream.”

“I never said I was giving up anything,” Stiles said sharply. “And as far as your-”

He broke off. Peter was suddenly sitting bolt upright, tense, as if straining to hear something.

“Peter?” he asked. Then he heard it too. A scream, almost a wail, feminine and full of horror and distress. Familiar.

Lydia.

“Lydia?!” Stiles shouted, twisting around. He couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from, it was-

A fresh round of screams made him realize that they were getting closer. “Stop the car!” he yelled at Peter, who was already slowing down and looking for a place to pull off. Stiles was out of the car before it had come to a stop, following the sound blindly, every step echoing _Lydia, Lydia, Lydia_.

He saw her shirt first, a bright lemon-yellow against the dripping black of the trees. He called her name again as he skidded to a stop next to her, checking for wounds, blood, anything. Only when Stiles knew that she was uninjured did he notice that she was shivering. Had been shivering all along, in fact, and staring fixedly at something a few feet in front of her.

He turned slowly.

She’d been a classmate of his, probably. Stiles could recall seeing her face a couple times in the halls and maybe behind the cash register at a convenience store. She didn’t speak up much and wasn’t part of his circle of friends, so he’d passed her by.

Someone hadn’t.

A thin wire stretched tight across her neck bit deep into her flesh, staining her shirt red. More sticky redness spilled from a wound on her head. The skin of her wrists was heavily bruised, like she’d been struggling to get loose from something. Her body slumped on the trunk of the tree, held up by the thin wire.

Stiles was, for a moment, absurdly glad that he’d thrown up earlier and didn’t have anything left to bring up. Then his body dry heaved anyway and he deliberately turned back to Lydia, avoiding the corpse. “Lydia? Are you okay? What happened?”

Lydia focused on him for the first time. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“You don’t know? What do you – what does that mean?” Stiles asked. “You didn’t see who did it?”

“It means, _I don’t know_ ,” Lydia said with a touch of her usual bite. Then it vanished and she went back to being lost and frightened. “I just – went out for some aspirin and – and when I got out of the car-” She stopped and looked around. “Where’s my car?”

“It’s probably back at the road, we’re a little ways in here, Lydia, _focus_ ,” Stiles said impatiently. “Are you- are we in danger? Was she dead when you got here?”

“Yes,” Lydia said. She was about to say more when she stiffened and stepped back.

Stiles looked up to find that Peter had arrived and was carefully sniffing around the dead teenager. He examined the garrote with almost professional appreciation, then glanced at Stiles. “There’s a scent.”

Stiles nodded. “Go,” he said. “See if you can track them, but don’t try to fight.”

Peter smirked as if to say _of course_ and loped off into the forest. “And move your car!” Stiles yelled after him, realizing that it might not be the best idea to get Peter mixed up with the law again, even as a witness. He pulled his cell phone out and dialed the Sheriff’s office.

“Hey, Tansy? Yeah, um, I’m a few miles out of town, not sure where…” he said, keeping an eye on Lydia. She’d relaxed a little bit when Peter vanished but was still staring after him. After Stiles had given the information to dispatch and hung up, she switched her glare to him. “What is _he_ doing here?” she asked, the word ‘he’ carrying a gallon of venom.

“He’s- ah-” Stiles waved his hand vaguely in the direction Peter had taken. “He’s – with me. We were out. Together.” When Lydia’s stare did not diminish, Stiles reluctantly added, “On a date.”

Lydia’s stare turned incredulous. “A what.”

“A date.”

Lydia looked at him for a few more minutes, then turned and walked to the nearest stump, where she sat, heedless of the dirt and grime. “I must be hallucinating. Let me know when the police get here and maybe I can wake up.”

Stiles sighed and headed over to explain things to her. But he couldn’t help feeling that all of this – the corpse, Lydia’s sleepwalking – was familiar. And he wished he had the excuse of waking dreams.

Because maybe then he could have imagined the interest in Peter’s eyes when he looked at the corpse.


	2. Chapter 2

Lying to the cops turned out to be far easier than persuading them not to call his dad, which Stiles thought he should be vaguely ashamed of. He’d spun them so many bullshit stories over the past few months that the story of a date gone so wrong the girl ditched him by the side of the road tripped off his tongue with barely a twinge of conscience. But Tansy insisted that his father should be notified that Stiles had been found near yet another dead body, and Stiles had his work cut out to ensure she didn’t.

“I wasn’t even the person who _found_ the body,” he protested to her skeptical stare. “I’m here for – moral support, or something. I’m driving her home, she’s in no condition to drive by herself.”

“You were still one of the first on the scene,” Tansy pointed out. “We took a statement. Sheriff’s going to want to know what happened here.”

Stiles ran his hands through his hair and tried another tack. “Look, I get it. You need to keep him informed. But, seriously, you _know_ how hard these last few months have been for him. For all of us. You saw what he looked like after the station killings.”

Tansy’s face contorted into grief for an instant. Stiles pressed his advantage. “He’s been pulling double shifts and all-nighters for weeks. I had to badger him into taking this vacation or he’d have fallen over, and the _last_ thing he needs to know is that one of the kids who found a dead body – completely by chance! – is his son. He’d come _rushing home_ , you know he would.”

Tansy wavered and then relented. “All right. I’ll keep your name out of the briefing.” She pointed a finger at him. “But you make sure that girl gets home safe now, you hear?”

“Will do,” Stiles agreed cheerfully, and loped off to where Lydia was sitting.

He slowed as he approached her. Someone had given Lydia a shock blanket that clashed horribly with her shirt, but she didn’t seem to care about that. Her fingers tugged on the edge of the blanket mindlessly as she stared into the distance, head tilted to one side as if listening to something. Stiles had expected her to be upset, angry, anything, but all he could think when he looked at her was that she was waiting.

_For what?_

Stiles reached out to touch her shoulder, thought better of it, and cleared his throat. She didn’t react. He did it again, louder, and when that failed, called tentatively, “Lydia? We’re, uh… we’re done now. I can take you home. If you want to go home, that is.”

Lydia gave a minute shake of her head and seemed to come back to herself. “Home,” she said blankly. She looked at Stiles. “Right.”

As she got up and walked to him, a little unsteadily, Stiles held out his hand. Lydia gave him a questioning glance. “I’m cool with driving to your house, but I kind of need your keys,” he said, then backtracked. “They thought it would be better if the person not obviously in shock drove. Not that you can’t, but it’s just…” _It’s just that the last time you got into a car, you ended up ten miles from where you were going with no idea of how you got there._

Lydia’s gaze turned icy. “Of course,” she said. “And since your _date_ dumped you by the side of the road, you need a ride. How convenient.” She fished out her keys and dropped them into Stiles’ hand while he was still searching for a comeback that wouldn’t aggravate her further, then stalked off to her car.

Stiles sighed heavily. He had the feeling he wasn’t done explaining by a long shot.

\----

The car ride was mostly silent. Stiles fiddled with the music stations a little before Lydia turned them off. She spent the rest of the ride alternately staring out the window and staring at Stiles, unless he actually returned her gaze, at which point she went back to staring out the window. He considered asking for directions to her house, even though he’d memorized them in fourth grade, just to hear her speak. He decided against asking what was wrong, though, because he wasn’t sure he was ready to unleash the caustic anger and accusations that would surely come pouring out. Especially since he didn’t have any solid proof to back up his counter-arguments, which was starting to make him a bit uneasy.

Stiles pulled up Lydia’s drive without incident and walked her to her front door. He had just enough time to realize that he didn’t have transportation to his own house when his cell phone rang. The caller ID flashed BIG BAD WOLF.

Stiles answered it quickly, heart pounding. “What happened? Did you find it? Her? Him? Are you okay?”

"I’m fine,” Peter said, sounding amused. There was frustration in his tone as well, and it became more evident as he went on. “I lost the trail, though. Whatever is doing this is fast, and the rain isn’t helping. The scent fades not thirty yards from the corpse. I called Scott and Derek; they’re going to do sweeps of the wood with Isaac. Where are you?”

“I took Lydia home,” he said, aware that she was staring at him again, lips compressed into a thin line. “I’m going to make sure she’s okay before I go.”

"Do you need a ride?”

He was about answer yes, and that it might be a good idea to pick him up a few houses down to avoid any more confrontations, when Lydia stepped up close and whispered, “Stay.”

Stiles blinked. Lydia raised her eyebrows and waited. Stiles might have been dating Peter, but Lydia had been first and foremost in his heart for years, and he knew he would regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t at least find out what she wanted.

“Stiles?”

“Why don’t you help them search for a while? We just got back. I’ll call you when I’m ready to go,” he said, giving up. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about the whole – y’know. Arguing and vomiting and finding of dead bodies.”

“I’ve been on worse first dates,” Peter said dryly. “Not many, mind, but some.”

Stiles laughed. “You’ll have to tell me about those sometime,” he said.

“When we’re home,” Peter promised, and a funny twinge went through Stiles’ heart when he heard the word ‘home’ from Peter’s lips. “Considering how this one turned out, I’d say a redo is in order. And I promise…” Peter’s voice was still light, but it carried a note of sincerity. “We can have as many first dates as you want until we get it right.”

A warm feeling swelled inside Stiles, and he found himself smiling at nothing. “Good. Because with our track records, that’ll probably be until I’m thirty,” he joked.

Peter laughed, a real laugh that bore no resemblance to his sarcastic chuckles and sounded good even through the phone’s speakers. “I’ll talk to you later, then,” he said. “See you, Stiles.”

“Bye,” Stiles said, feeling happy and foolish, and hung up the phone. The feeling abruptly vanished when he turned around and saw the look on Lydia’s face. There was anger and disgust there, sure enough, but also a generous helping of bewilderment and hurt. Hearing their light banter had done more to disturb her than the bloody corpse.

Stiles rubbed his arm in a sudden flood of guilt and embarrassment. “He’s… not that bad,” he mumbled defensively. “When you get to know him.”

“Not that bad,” Lydia repeated incredulously. She turned and led the way down the front hallway, leaving Stiles to follow after her. “Not that bad. You couldn’t go for the brooding communication-issues werewolf or the power-tripping former classmate, oh no. You had to go for the thirty-something sociopathic mentally-abusive werewolf who has killed _at least_ seven people, but oh, he’s _not that bad_.”

Irritation stung him as they reached Lydia’s room. “Yeah? I’m not the only one here dating a werewolf, you know,” he said. “And Jackson’s hands aren’t exactly clean.”

Lydia looked away. “That’s different,” she said, voice tightly controlled. “Jackson was forced to kill. And we’re not… well…” Lydia’s fingers traced the outline of a thin chain around her neck. “It’s complicated.”

Stiles would have given anything to hear those words from Lydia’s lips two months ago. He’d entertained countless daydreams that started with variations of this scene and ended with holding hands in rocking chairs, old and happy. Hell, he’d drawn up a ten-year plan of how to become her boyfriend that made his plans for college look like notes on a napkin. (Which they kind of still were. Temporarily. It was a good napkin, nice and thick, and he hadn’t spilled food on it and he was _meaning_ to type them up someday and… look, running from certain death takes up a lot of time, okay?)

Now, though, the first thing that spilled from his mouth was, “Convincing me that my relationship choices are worse than yours is going to take more than a Facebook status.”

Lydia’s glare could have stripped paint. “Funny, because I’d have thought that posting who you’re dating would be enough to do that. Is everyone else in on the whole ‘Stiles is dating a homicidal abusive middle-aged zombie-wolf’ thing, then? Or am I the only one who’s out of the loop?”

Stiles stamped on his initial flare of anger. Taking a deep breath, he sighed. “Look, it’s not… I can’t really explain. I can’t, because I don’t understand all of it myself. It’s not… this isn’t a feeling you can explain, that’ll make sense in words. I like Peter. Like, _really_ like. Maybe even…” He lost courage at the last moment. “You know. That.”

“That’s about as clear as mud,” Lydia informed him.

“I’m _trying_ here,” Stiles snapped. “I just… he’s important to me, okay? And yeah, even with the murders and stuff, and I know what he’s done and it’s pretty bad but I don’t know that I disagree with all of it? Like the murders, some of those were awful, but – Kate was going to _kill_ Scott and Derek, she had a _gun_ to Scott’s _head_ , and if Peter hadn’t stopped her she might’ve done it. And he plays games with people’s heads and that’s something we have in common, actually, and he gets my jokes and he steals my books and things show up in my wardrobe that he thinks I’d like and he’s sarcastic and stubborn but he _cares_ about me, more than I think he knows I know. Okay? He – he’s trying. He hurt people, and he’s probably going to hurt more people, but this time I can tell him not to and maybe he’ll consider it. But I knew that. I knew what he was like, what he _is_ like, and I still… it’s a part of him, and it’s never going away, and he still wants to be with me, and I want to be with him. I know him, Lydia.” Stiles shrugs helplessly. “I knew what I was in for, and I still chose him.”

Lydia’s glare had melted away during Stiles’ speech, to be replaced with a strange expression. She sat in silence for a few minutes, regarding him with something that was not quite pity, not quite pain. “No,” she said finally.

“What?”

“No,” she said again. “You didn’t know.” She ducked her head and stared at the edge of the comforter. “Because I never told you.”

“Told me what?” Stiles asked, pretending not to feel the pit forming in his stomach.

Lydia’s fingers trembled as she twisted the comforter, but when she looked up, there was nothing but steely resolve in her eyes. “I never told you what he did to me. What I saw those weeks when I was haunted.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “I’m telling you now.”

\----

It was after midnight and the rain had settled to fine mist when Stiles stumbled out of Lydia’s house. He walked a few blocks without really seeing them, randomly heading in the direction of his house. He might have wandered the rest of the night if the beeping of his phone hadn’t shaken him out of his daze. Stiles pulled it out and answered it. “Hello?”

“I don’t mean to interrupt your chat with Lydia, but it is getting late,” Peter said. “I’m back in Beacon Hills. If you want me to pick you up, I could-”

“No!” Stiles practically shouted. Peter fell silent. “No,” Stiles said more calmly, thankful that his heartbeat couldn’t be read over the phone. “It’s fine. Her – her mom dropped me off. I don’t need – anything. You can go home.”

Peter stayed silent for such a long time that Stiles wondered if Peter knew, if he could tell how much his gut was churning and doubts chasing through his mind. “All right,” he said at last. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Stiles said, hating how his voice cracked on the last word.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Stiles said before he could stop himself. “Just – I need a little time to rest, okay?”

“Stiles…”

He waited for the question, but it never came. Instead, Peter sighed into the phone. “Call me when you’re ready, then. Good night.”

“Night,” he said, and hung up.

He didn’t remember finishing the walk home or stripping off his clothes or flopping onto his bed. His mind was full of the horrors Lydia had described to him, her smooth, matter-of-fact voice somehow making the nightmares and visions worse. He didn’t need to hear her heartbeat to know that she’d been telling the truth the whole time. Stiles tried to reconcile the manipulative Peter of Lydia’s dreams with the Peter who’d stroked his back when he threw up and couldn’t. No – that was a lie. He could, and that was worse.

Heartsore and emotionally exhausted, he slipped into a troubled sleep, full of shadowy figures and unpleasant laughter and the steady _drip drip drip_ of blood.

\----

An insistent buzzing woke Stiles up, and he spent a few seconds slapping the supposed giant mosquito before he regained consciousness enough to remember what a phone was. He managed to answer the call and brought it up to his face with a mumbled “’Lo?”

"Stiles, I need your help,” Scott said, sounding deeply unhappy. There was growling in the background, and Scott swore under his breath. “You’ve got to get to the loft immediately.”

“Why? What’s going on?” Stiles asked, already reaching for his pants. Scott’s troubled voice had done more good than a bucket of icy water.

“It’s another spell,” Scott said. “Worse than the other one.

“And this time, they got Derek.”


End file.
